


More To Color

by dan_vs92



Series: More To Series [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Trans Fiddleford, Trans Fiddleford H. McGucket, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dan_vs92/pseuds/dan_vs92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tate decides he wants to color in daddy's book. Sequel to More To Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More To Color

Tate squirmed on his uncle's lap, trying to find a more comfortable position before settling on the center of his stomach, molding into his chub and allowing his snores that vibrated through him to rock him into a more relaxed state. The remote that had disappeared somewhere underneath his uncle had changed the channel to something that failed to capture the two-and-a-half year old’s attention. 

One of his snores had made his uncle's long, curly locks of hair get stuck in his mouth, drool absorbing into it. Tate smiled at the chance to help his uncle before he got up grumpy about his hair always being a “nuisance” as he called it. Tate didn't understand why he didn't seem to like it, Tate liked his uncle's long and pretty “mullet” as his father often called it in disgust. Uncle Stan had once told Papa he didn't cut it because he liked annoying his father with it, Papa frowned to that but put his trimming materials away. Uncle Stan was very lucky, when Tate expressed interest in having a mullet like his uncle his daddy and papa always said no because he wouldn't take care of his mullet like his uncle didn't take care of his. 

Tate pulled the soggy hair out of his uncle's mouth and proceeded to put it back in place, just marveling at his uncle as he slept. He wished he would wake up and tell him another one of his funny stories. He never finished the one about the Cuban Prison, he didn't understand why he stopped when Papa came into the room… 

As it was bound to happen, Tate became bored watching his uncle snore and pushed himself off of him, leaving to find something to do while both of his dads were downstairs where he wasn't allowed to go as his uncle continued to sleep. He would wake him up but his uncle wasn't like his dads, he slept through everything. 

He went upstairs, chubby fingers grasping the railing tight as he hefted himself up each step. It was a much harder task without one of his dads or his uncle assisting him every step of the way or just carrying him like he found he preferred after the treacherous and long trip up the stairs. He was exhausted and out of breath by the time he made it up the final step, so he sat down in the hallway, catching his breath. A smile crept across his lips at the feeling of accomplishment of doing something on his own, it made him feel like his dad after days without sleep and he woke everyone up yelling of his achievement in finally putting the pieces together right. He liked those nights, even if Papa and Uncle Stan seemed to agree they were annoying. Daddy would pick him up and show him what he'd been up to for days in his journal, and even though he didn't fully comprehend what he was talking about he liked looking at his pretty pictures. 

A saddening thought occurred to him as he sat there catching his breath, Daddy was always so busy he never had time to color his pretty pictures. He pushed himself off the floor and made his way to his dad's study where the door was wide open like he sometimes left it, bringing stacks of papers and unfinished toys he called models down to the lab that Tate was sad he wasn't allowed to go into, not until you’re older Daddy would always say, kissing him, and Uncle Stan said he wouldn't want to when he was older anyways. His parents would reprimand him about discouraging his “budding love for science”, as they called it, but he really just wanted to play with the toys his dads were always making...   
Daddy's study was boring, no different than the dad's on TV’s studies, but it always felt special to Tate. His dad worked on his journal in here and that was a book filled with magic, real magic, not like the fake magic Uncle Stan made fun on TV and told Tate in long, important details Tate felt bad for never remembering how the magicians were “pulling the wool of those suckers’ eyes”. He quickly sidestepped around the rug on the floor that his dads had warned him not to touch, he could end up stuck as a bug or something equally as awful if he wasn't careful. Making it around the rug he let out a sigh of relief and a sense of joy shot through him like the fireworks Uncle Stan said he wasn't allowed to tell anyone about as he laid his eyes on the journal sitting open where Daddy had left it on the desk. Squeaking with delight he clambered up the chair and grabbed the journal, falling on his butt rather hard into the large chair in his haste to get his hands on this treasure. 

He looked at the golden insignia on the front with wonder and giggled a little as he placed his own six-fingered hand on the much larger symbol, feeling more connected to his father, a feeling of pride swelling in him realizing he was just like his dad.   
\---   
It was going on twenty-six hours since the last break Ford had given himself, but he was so close to a breakthrough. Crumpled-up papers circled around his desk, the garbage can to his left filled to the brim with scrapped theories and equations that just didn't add up in his journey to solve the biggest mystery Gravity Falls had to offer: What attracted so much of the paranormal to this town? This could be a game-changer in his field of study but he had hit dead end after dead end trying to connect the dots.   
He crumpled up the failed equation and tossed it in the pile, the frustration bubbling in his stomach ready to explode in anger at any given moment. He growled, sinking into his chair. He was missing something… what was it?! 

Loving, gentle hands eased the tension from his shoulders, snapping him from his aggravating queries that were painfully gnawing into his brain. He began to relax more under his lover's gentle care and allowed himself to slump into the chair. A few moments of relaxation never hurt anyone, a small reprieve before he jumped back into his work. 

"I think ya need ta take a break, Stanford." There was no room for arguments in that tone. Ford scowled, he hated being at the receiving end of that tone, it felt like it belonged in Stan or Tate's direction for actually doing something worthy of being reprimanded. 

"But—" 

A sweet kiss with the aftertaste of sugar and coffee cut him off and made his insides melt at the power only one person could truly have over him. He was as enthralled by those blue eyes now as he was the first time he had really noticed them peeking over his math homework to make corrections he would have scowled at anyone else at for daring to correct. Maybe it was the exhaustion breaking down his walls, but he was willing to do whatever the man with those long magic fingers hitting just the right spots to relieve his tension asked of him. Well, his mind reasoned, maybe after a few revisions. He was very close to a breakthrough… 

"I will, in an hour dearest. I'm very—” His words were cut off by a tender kiss on the forehead, the gentleman's way of telling you to shut your mouth and listen, as he had surmised after the near decade of being with this man. 

"Go check on Tate and then take a nap Stanford, before I have to get Stanley down here to haul you back upstairs like last time." 

Ford scowled at the notion, his brother never let those things die, a simple affair at the dinner table would be turned into mockery. His scowls wouldn’t be able to silence him once he became, as he so lovingly dubbed it, “his object of ridicule”. He wouldn't allow that to happen again. Not after he just saved him from being the gnome’s hostage, he wouldn’t allow him to have any more ammunition. 

Sighing, he reluctantly nodded to Fidds’ request and rose from his workstation that he hadn’t moved from in hours. He pecked him on the cheek before exiting the lab, leaving his darling to work on his “personal computers”. They were a waste of time if you asked Ford but it kept him preoccupied and content, too busy with what he considered the breakthrough of the century to worry about Ford (as often as he used to at the very least). With one final shoo to Ford, Fidds was once more back to work. He envied him for a moment but let those thoughts slide, someone needed to make certain his brother hadn’t allowed their toddler to destroy the house while they were working in the lab.   
\---   
Ford passed through the living room and rolled his eyes at his brother once more passed out in front of the TV. 

“Stanley!” he barked out, and not surprisingly his brother continued to sleep, loud snores drowning out the television and echoing across the room like blaring sirens. On the TV tray sitting next to his brother’s favorite recliner, a half-empty can of Pitt Cola sat, surrounded by many other crushed, turned-over cans and a dozen wrappers of eaten candy that he knew Fidds would kill him for for giving to Tate this late in the afternoon. 

He picked up the can and without remorse dumped the rest of its contents onto his brother, giving him a rude awakening. 

Stan flew from his previous resting spot, fists out, ready for a fight from what he thought was a threat. Once the initial shock wore off, he ran his tongue across the drops of soda streaming from his hair and cast a murderous glare at his brother, the type of glare that guaranteed he was going to pay him back for this in the near future and that that payback may or may not involve blood. 

“Where’s Tate?” Ford demanded before the curses broke from his brother’s lips. 

The seething rage drained from Stan’s face as he glanced around at the toys scattered around his recliner, but with no sign of his nibling, and his face began to pale as the worry set in. 

“He was just ‘ere a second ago,” he began, scanning the room, carefully combing through the mess for any trace of where the child had gotten to. 

“Go make sure he didn’t get outside because of your negligence,” Ford hissed, cutting off any of his brother’s excuses before they could start. 

“My—“Stan began, but was cut off by Ford’s glare that said he wasn’t going to hear another word from his brother on the matter. 

“Go check outside, now, I’ll make sure he didn’t get into anything upstairs.” Ford’s words were final and not up for debate. Stan slouched his shoulders, admitting his defeat wordlessly. This wasn’t about their petty disagreements, this was about finding Tate before something happened to him. 

No more words were spoken between the brothers as one shot upstairs and the other ran outside, the missing little boy and all his favorite hiding spots were the only things on both of their minds.   
\---   
Once up the stairs, it didn’t take long for Ford to find his son, his study’s wide-open door was all the clue he needed as to where his child could be hiding. Knowing where he was didn’t alleviate his worry and as he walked through the door, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped as his anger towards his brother’s negligence intensified. 

Sitting cross-legged on the floor was his son with permanent, un-erasable markers in a large pile next to him and his third journal, his life’s work, all those years of research, wide-open and being used as a coloring book. Stanley Pines was a dead man when he got his hands on him. 

“Tate Oxford McGucket!” He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible to not take his rage out on his son, but he couldn’t keep his voice at an even tone. Stan may be the dead man in this situation but he needed to teach his son here and now that he couldn’t take his father’s research like this. 

Tate dropped the red marker his six little fingers had been wrapped around and looked up to his father with a look that could mirror a deer caught in the headlights. 

“You can’t just take other people’s belonging and color in them! Your dad and I have bought you plenty of coloring books! Why are you destroying my journal!?” 

Fat tears began rolling down the toddler’s face and he let out a perfectly-pitched wail that could send the dead back in their graves. Ford tried to tell himself that he couldn’t bend to this, toddlers threw fits, he couldn’t bend to this one, not after his son had written in his journal like that, most of the blame may go on his brother’s shoulders but he had to teach his son that this isn’t proper behavior. 

“Tate,” he began sternly, but his son continued to bellow in despair for getting caught in the act by Daddy, “You know it’s wrong to touch other people’s things, your papa and I have told you many times. Dry your tears up and tell Daddy why you touched his book.” 

Tate didn’t do as Ford asked, he continued to scream and cry and Ford was silently wishing Fidds or even Stan would come up here and assist him with this. He had never personally dealt with one of his son’s tantrums and didn’t know how to handle them. He couldn’t bring himself to yell at his child or use any sort of corporal punishment on him, not on the little boy who was always so well-behaved for him. He didn’t know what to do but stand in the doorway and watch his son cry. 

Instead of the rage he thought he would feel seeing his brother once more, out of breath and panting behind him, he felt relief. He looked to his brother in desperation and then towards his crying son, silently begging him to tell him what to do to make him stop. 

“I-I just wanted to h-h-help you with y-yer book!” Tate finally wailed out before crying harder at his father’s disappointment for him trying to help. 

“Comfort yer son,” Stan hissed to him, pushing him into the room. 

Ford crossed the room and picked up his son, holding him awkwardly as he continued to cry. He pressed his son gently against his shoulder like he did when he was a baby and began patting his back. He couldn’t even bring himself to scold his child for trying to help him. He looked down at the journal where the once black and white gnome’s hat was, now colored with a bright red, pride swelling in him, his two-year-old colored in the lines. His son was so smart and talented for his age. 

“If you’ll excuse me Sixer, I gotta go clean my mullet, I’m sure you’ve got this covered,” Stan announced loudly and Ford waved him off, sinking onto the floor with his son still in his arms. 

“It’s ok Tate,” Ford soothed, rubbing his back, “Daddy’s not mad anymore, I think you’re making an improvement to Daddy’s journal.” 

Tate began to settle down at that and looked up to his father with bloodshot eyes and a tiny smile growing on his face. 

“Really!” Ford said in as soothing a voice as he could manage, “Maybe color will make Daddy’s work stand out more.” 

“R-really?” Tate gasped out, wiping snot on the back of his new sweater. Ford chuckled, cleaning his child’s face with the sleeves of his jacket and settled him down on his lap. 

“Of course my boy.” He began picking up one of the markers off the floor and began to color the gnome’s shirt blue, “The gnomes are very colorful creatures full of mystery.” 

“Mystery?” Tate gasped out, watching his father color. 

“Out of all the creatures in this town, the gnomes are some of the most allusive,” Ford sighed out, Tate’s big blue eyes looking intently up at his father while he talked, “I’ve been in this town for years and I still don’t know what’s under their hats.” 

Tate put his hand under his chin and began to ponder his father’s words and then gasped out with a bright smile on his face, “More pointy hats!” 

Ford smiled to that theory, writing the words “Pointy Hats” at the bottom of the journal to mark his son’s first theory on the unexplained things that went on in this town. 

“That’s a good theory, my boy,” Ford said, the wheels in his own head beginning to turn as he looked at the pointy hat the little finger was pointing towards, “But I’m afraid with each step forward I take on this endeavor to find out what’s truly under their hats, I take two steps backwards. They were so bitter about me finding my answers last time, they tied me up and threw me down the bottomless pit.” A bright smile broke across his face and his son mirrored his expression as he exclaimed with triumph, “But the joke was on them, they only helped me collect research for another project!” 

Tate settled onto his father’s lap, watching him color and soon fell asleep there, enticed by his father’s tales of heroics and wonder.   
\----  
Fiddleford later came to check up on Ford to find him snuggled against their son, journal open before them, the Gnome page now fully colored to the author's approval. Fidds smiled, leaning against the door, breathing in the beautiful moment between father and son. He turned his head away for a moment to find Stan with a large, smug grin on his face as he offered Fidds the old camera that had been through hell and back on all of Ford's expeditions. He smiled, accepting his friend's offer. What was blackmail material to Stanley Pines was a lovely scrapbook opportunity to Fiddleford. 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> For those who really liked MTL I hope you enjoyed this! ^.^


End file.
